Wait and Hope: Chapter One
Harold Finch
Harrington James Furnham, III; Harry, to the handful of people that had cared enough or been allowed to get close to the reticent middle-aged resident of the upper floor of the aging brownstone; paused at the landing looking upwards.
Harry tried to brace himself for the pain in his hip that would worsen with every step he climbed until he reached his apartment door. He blinked several times, swallowed heavily and sighed, trying not to think of the time he had fought to be able to even walk again. And Harry had walked and climbed stairs and....
But that was in another life best forgotten. One in which that Harry had spent his entire adulthood dwelling in the shadows, not unlike the Harry now. The Harry before had had great success, many names, and many identities, all the while content to let another bask in the sunlight. And epic failures, those the troubled man had placed solely on himself. But for those thirty odd years, regardless the circumstances, he had lived. Now, with everyone, everything that had truly mattered gone, all Harry did was exist.
Chiding himself mentally for stalling and dwelling on something he could never change, Harrington leaned his plain wooden cane against the wall and set his worn leather briefcase alongside it. He bent over to unclasp the leash from his service dog's collar. It had become a habitual and almost necessary routine. Cane over his right forearm, briefcase in that hand, with his left hand on the railing he would pull himself up one step at a time. On good days the dog would bound up the stairs and wait patiently on the landing by the apartment door. But as most days were far from good anymore, the dog would make the slow climb with Harrington, a solid presence at the man's side.
It was a bit of a surprise when the dog did neither, but instead padded hurriedly over to the opening apartment door of the lower unit. Harrington's downstairs neighbor was a middle-aged widow and though not much older than himself had decided on that first day months ago Harry had needed mothering and she would be the one.
~*~
Harold had found the apartment with the address listed on the driver’s license belonging to one Harrington Furnham that had been included in the envelope. It had been late that night after countless cab rides all over the city before he'd had decided, or had hoped, no one or nothing was tracking him. He had given another taxi driver the address, paid the man upon arriving, and entered his new home and new life. In spite of the pain in his shoulder he had collapsed, fully clothed, on the simple but serviceable single bed in the one tiny bedroom and fallen into a fitful sleep.
That sleep was nightmare after nightmare filled with everything that had happened in Finch's life the weeks before as his world went to hell. When Harold awoke covered in sweat he looked around hoping to be in the hotel room in Washington, D.C., John sleeping by his side. However, the searing pain in his shoulder and the light brightening the room from the morning sun, was a gut clenching reminder that the nightmares were real; he wasn't in a hotel room, John Reese was gone, everyone and everything Finch had known were gone.
Harold shed his suit jacket and pants; vest, shirt and neck tie in the tiny bathroom before showering and then treating his shoulder as best he could. Finch had thrown on the worn terrycloth bathrobe hanging from an old metal hook screwed into the bathroom door and padded barefoot back into the tiny bedroom.
Opening each drawer in the old wooden chest of drawers standing next to the closet door and adjacent but only an arm's length from the single bed, Harold had found brown, dark blue or black dress socks, plain white crew neck undershirts and two weeks’ worth of no nonsense solid colored cotton boxers. Certainly nothing fancy or pricey, just name brand underclothing that could be purchased at any department store anywhere in the country.
A look inside the closet at clothing hanging from the elongated u-shaped bars revealed the same thing. Although nothing was threadbare or worn out−some of the suit jackets and sweater vests still had the price tags on them even−there again was nothing that would identify the owner.There were button up shirts both long-sleeved and short of various lighter colors hanging neatly on dry cleaner hangers at the right rear and on the bar by the wall opposite, a neat row of slacks, khakis mainly, in various hues of dark colors, blues, browns or blacks.
In a five drawer bureau with an old opaque looking mirror against the wall with the bedroom door Harold found faded blue jeans, sweatpants, old tee shirts and sweatshirts with NYCU printed on them and some polo shirts. The kind of clothes Harold had worn long ago....
Checking one of the smaller drawers he found four god-awful clip-on bow ties, several solid darker colored ties among some odd print ones, but that was all. In another were monogrammed white handkerchiefs kept in one’s pocket for use. No decorative pocket squares anywhere. In the tray on the bureau top meant for keeping a man’s accessories were two sets of cufflinks with matching tie clips, one set gold, one silver, and both perfect imitations. There was a plain gold band wrist watch and from what Harold could tell, a real gold wedding band.
After having resigned himself to wearing the clothing of Harrington Furnham, Harold sat back on the bed, dressed in a pair of the well-worn jeans and a polo shirt. He picked up the manila envelope that he'd tossed on the nightstand before collapsing on the bed the night before and dumped its contents onto the rumpled spread.
There was what was left of the money, having spent hundreds of it riding around in cabs for eight hours, the driver's license, another set of keys, and a small piece of paper with 'look in the file box on the closet shelf' scribbled on it.
But when Harold had stood intending to grab the metal box he'd noticed earlier, Bear appeared at the doorway, head hung low and whining. Harold could have kicked himself, he had been so wrapped up in his own misery, he’d completely forgotten about their dog. Harold picked up a worn pair of knock off Adidas instead, sat back down on the bed and put them on. Heading for the front door, Bear at his heels, Harold grabbed the dog's leash off the arm of a clean but aged overstuffed couch where he vaguely remembers dropping it the night before. Not expecting the weather to have warmed up much from the previous day, Harold pulled on an old blue woolen navy pea coat that was hanging on a standing wooden rack.
Once Harold and the dog had descended the stairs, they headed out the back door of the unit. Checking his pocket once for his set of keys, he closed the door behind him and bent as low as he could to attach the leash to Bear's collar, before both of them stepped down a set of cracked concrete steps. There was a small fenced in area that had been a small yard with green grass at one time but was now nothing but browned weeds. An overfilled trash dumpster was pushed up against the wall of the brownstone between the fence of his unit and the one surrounding the equally neglected yard for the apartments attached to theirs.
Promising Bear that they would find a park near by tomorrow to do their exercise properly, they walked up to the end of the alley and back. Bear relieved himself on the smelly dumpster and then next to it. Harold planned to clean up later but seriously doubted anyone would notice as there were far smellier and nastier things deposited in the alley.
Once back upstairs Harold found dog food in the small pantry off the kitchen and filled both food and water bowls that were already on the floor underneath the kitchen's only window. Bear drank some water, sniffed disinterestedly at the food before going to lie back down on a worn dog bed Harold hadn't noticed before in the corner of the living room.
Finch could feel his heart shatter into a million pieces. Watching John walk away the day before had almost killed him inside. It had torn Harold’s emotions to shreds seeing that lost and defeated look in John’s eyes before he’d turned and disappeared into the crowd. It didn't make matters any better but at least he realized why it had to be done. Though a person can understand even accept why something has to be, how can you explain it to an animal why after such a brief reunion he was separated once again from the human he loved the most? The dog adored him and would die to protect him Harold had realized long ago. Bear was ‘their’ dog of course, but the canine’s heart and soul belonged only to John.
Harold watched until Bear closed his eyes and heard the silent whimper from the dog as he fell asleep. Shoulders slumped in defeat, Finch returned to his bedroom, ‘I can’t even promise Bear we’ll get John back this time. All I can do is keep us alive now’, Harold silently cried inside. And that meant learning about and living Harrington Furnham’s life.
Finch pulled the metal box off the shelf and went to sit down on the bed once more. The box was locked of course and the extra set of keys that had been in the envelope held the small key to the lock. Unlocking the box’s lid and flipping it back revealed a box crammed to capacity with manila folders. One folder marked documents held two birth certificates, one marriage license and a death certificate for an Eric Furnham. Looking closer Harold noticed both of the birth certificates were yellowed and aged. The one belonging to Harrington James Furnham, III, birth date October 23, 1952, listed his mother as Alana Furnham, maiden name Stanhope, and father as Harrington Byrd Furnham, II. The other belonged to Eric Creighton, birth date May 28, 1953, mother Kathryn Creighton, maiden name Mason and father William Creighton, . The marriage license was issued by the state of New York on June 30, 2011 for Harrington and Eric Furnham. The death certificate was for Eric Furnham, date of death July 14, 2011, cause of death, severe head trauma.
In different folders Finch found recent newspaper clippings and some so old they were yellowed and brittle along with some equally old letters. Apparently the third Harrington was expected to take over and eventually inherit a thriving shipping business in Boston. But in college he’d met and fallen in love with Eric. Harrington’s family had disowned him for admitting to being gay and lost contact with him afterwards. The elder Furnham had passed away without an heir and the company had been taken over by a rival over 25 years ago.
Eric's small family were working class people but they had also turned their backs on their gay son. Creighton had no other living relations except his parents and a sister. The family had eventually made peace. However, when his parents had died, the sister was never heard from again and Eric's only relation was Harrington.
The most recent newspaper clippings were mostly about a multi-car crash and names of the victims and injured.
“Eric Furnham of Philadelphia was killed instantly and his partner of 35 years was severely injured. The men had been one of the many same sex couples who came to New York to be legally married. The couple spent two weeks in New York before returning to Pennsylvania. Their black SUV was struck head on by….”
Nothing contained in the file box explained what Harrington and Eric had done for 35 years and where the surviving Furnham had been for the last three years. Harold returned the box and its contents to its place on the shelf. He picked up the keys thinking the others might be for the locked desk and file cabinet in an even smaller room across the hall that served to be a makeshift office.
Looking through contents of the various folders in the file cabinet had revealed Harrington and Eric both graduated university, and started a small accounting firm. It never made them rich according to the last ten years of the firm’s income tax returns, but they were able to sell the business for a small profit and retire in their fifties. Harold found some portraits of the two men and some photographs tucked away in the bottom drawer of the file cabinet. Except for the hair coloring and cut Harrington and Harold were almost identical.
Harold checked the contents of the desk drawers and found nothing except a rental agreement; the apartment was a sublet arrangement between Furnham and the previous tenant. The real Harrington had moved in only a month ago according to the move-in date on the rental agreement and receipts from a moving company based in Philly.
The last key on the ring of keys opened the only locked drawer of the desk where Finch found a checkbook and bank statements. There were also insurance claim forms. The insurance company for the at-fault driver had paid the surviving Furnham over two million dollars for the auto accident killing Eric and injuring Harrington. Money had been spent for Eric's final funeral costs, Harrington's hospital costs and the costs of renting the apartment. None of the money had been spent since.
Sifting through discarded receipts in the wire waste basket Finch found some for the new clothing in the closet, take-out food, sundries purchased at a drugstore and a pair of dress shoes. But none of them were dated in the past two weeks.
Harold’s new identity wasn't created by the Machine or Root for some person who existed only on paper; Harrington was or had been an actual person. The real Furnham or any trace of him had disappeared two weeks ago, his life left waiting for Harold to assume.
Everything after that had been altered for Finch to become Harrington. Supposedly, Furnham had taken on-line courses during his recovery and earned his teaching credentials credentials before he recently accepted a position as substitute teacher for the NYC school system.
Even Bear had a new identity, Jack, a mostly solid black Shepherd mix, with a certificate of training as an assist dog. Another small handwritten note in Jack’s file had four words scribbled on it, look under the sink.
It was no small feat to get Bear to submit to having his hair dyed and for Finch to kneel in front of the antique bathtub for an over an hour applying the dye, especially with extra care to parts of Bear’s head and muzzle, then rinsing and drying.
When Harold was finished his back, hip, shoulder and neck were figuratively screaming in pain, but he still had to clean-up. He tossed the dye stained toweling in a garbage bag, along with everything Finch had been dressed in the night he arrived. Planning on throwing the bag in the overflowing dumpster he found earlier, Harold changed from the soaking wet polo shirt into one of the crew necks and an old sweatshirt. His shoulder had bled through the gauze he noticed but he planned to hurry downstairs, get rid of the bag, and when that was done, return upstairs and retreat the shoulder as best he could. Harold looked in the bureau mirror and attempted to use a brush to convince his hair to lie flat and part at the side as in his/Harrington’s photos.
Finch also slipped on the wedding ring, even if on paper his new personae had been married to Eric and Harold Finch was to be no more. Although he and John had never married - Harold may never even see him again - who was to know that in his heart the person Harold is truly married to and always will be is John Reese.
Harold didn't plan on being outside for long, just hide the garbage bag in the mound of other rotting garbage, clean up Bear’s mess by the dumpster and be back inside before he had time to get cold.
Only after he rushed to get everything done, Finch noticed his wound had bled through both the crew and sweatshirt. Harold tried to hurry back upstairs but just as he was getting ready to pass his neighbor’s door, the woman came rushing out nearly knocking Finch over in her haste. The woman reached out to steady him and her eyes flew wide open when she saw the blood on the shoulder of the sweatshirt.
Before Finch could protest she was pulling him into her apartment, ordering him to take off the sweatshirt, telling Harold she was a retired nurse and his gunshot wounded needed to be treated all in one long breathless sentence.
When she came back with a medical bag and saw Harold still standing there, she asked him to please sit. She introduced herself as Martha Carlson. She told Finch she knew he had no reason to believe her, that she wouldn't tell anyone, but his shoulder needed to be looked at. Harold had no reason to trust her but he couldn't go anywhere else and he knew what could happen if his shoulder was left un-treated.
He’d pulled off the sweatshirt and didn't complain when she used a pair of scissors to cut the undershirt. While she gently probed around the injury, Harold shut his eyes thinking about John fingers having done the same. Martha never asked who had done it but told Harold whoever had removed the bullet did a good job. The retired nurse then grabbed a tube of cream and squeezed some into the wound. It stung with a burning cold before becoming completely numb. After taping a large piece of gauze over the bullet track she handed him a pharmacy bag filled with gauze, tape and a bottle of antibiotics. She tossed the tube in telling Harold to repeat what she had done if he needed to for pain.
Martha had grabbed Finch by his good arm, pulling him up out of the chair and walked him outside her apartment. Harold was halfway back up his stairs when Martha called up, “I didn't get your name.”
“It’s Harrington, Ma’am.” Harold answered not looking back down.
Before he opened his door he heard her laugh “I'm not a Ma’am, I’m Martha. And Harrington is too much for you. I’m calling you Harry. Harry, you come back and knock on my door if you need my help again!” Harold went in his apartment and leaned against the door after he closed it. He closed his eyes and prayed his instinct to trust Martha had been right.
~*~
And now after five months, two in his new job substituting at various schools and three during the summer working as a night auditor for one of the hotels of a nationwide chain, Harrington had spent the first day of the new school year trying to run herd over a rambunctious bunch of 5th graders. The kids were overly excited, looking forward to being in Miss Andrews’ class. Only Miss Andrews was now Mrs. Harding and was a day late getting back from her honeymoon and the kids were very unhappy to have that “weird” Mr. Furnham as their teacher. He tried to explain that Miss Andrews was now Mrs. Harding and she would return the next day. But tomorrow was forever away and the children had not given him a moment’s respite the whole day seemingly blaming him for their favorite teacher’s absence.
When Harry got home all he wanted to do was go up to his apartment, drink until the pain was numbed, and fall into bed. Maybe in his whiskey dreams a salt and peppered haired man with eyes of blue would come back to him and stay this time.
But Jack had run to Martha’s door expecting a treat and Harry followed the dog into her apartment. As had happened for months now, Martha was waiting for Harry to come home and invite him into her apartment. Even though his shoulder had healed months ago she still asked if it was okay or was it bothering him. Assured that her neighbor was fine, Martha fed him supper. Harry told her about his day and received a pat on his back with Martha telling him things will be better tomorrow.
Once upstairs he noticed Martha had been in his apartment to clean, he’d long ago stopped trying to tell her she didn't need to. Harry had given her an extra key to let herself in to check on Jack if the dog had to stay at home for the day. Some of the schools didn't allow dogs on school property period. Martha had progressed from checking on the dog to checking on Harry himself, which by her definition was making sure he had a clean apartment, freshly laundered clothes and a decent meal every day.
Harry recognized it was because of Martha’s watchful friendship and Jack’s faithfulness he hadn't drank himself to death already. But it still didn't keep him from grabbing the half-empty bottle of bargain basement rotgut he’d purchased that week and a glass before carrying them into his room.
He was in the middle of his third glass of ‘pain relief’ when he’d had to answer the landline phone. Harry almost spilled what was left in the glass on him and did knock the phone base on the floor fumbling to answer it. It was the superintendent asking him to teach Mrs. Harding’s class again tomorrow as she still couldn't catch a flight home. The superintendent tried to reassure Furnham that he would have some idea what to do if he agreed to sub one more day; Mrs. Harding had faxed her first day’s lesson plans, seating arrangement, etc. to the school. Harry needed the day’s pay no matter how horrendous the kids were so he agreed to be there at 8:30 AM.
Furnham set the alarm, but he knew that he would be up again hours before it would go off. No matter how much he drank to ease the pain and forget or to just pass out, Harry always dreamt of the blue eyed man and tried to hold on to him. But, the man would slip out of his grasp again and Harry would startle himself awake shouting, "John!"
+++
The day wasn't nearly as bad as the previous. The children had actually behaved and even listened while Mr. Furnham had recited the lessons outlined in Mrs. Harding’s fax. At the end of the day he packed up his things in his leather case, told the janitor he was leaving, that the room could be locked up for the night and headed for the exit to the faculty parking lot.
Harry approached his beat up old Taurus and noticed a slip of paper slid under one of the windshield wipers. “Don’t come back tomorrow homo!” was written in black marker in large letters. He looked around but the parking lot was empty now except for a few cars; there were some grade school aged boys shooting hoops on the court at the other end of school property but none of them even looked his way.
Harry wadded up the paper and tossed it in his car, another cruel prank of the type he’d gotten used to. Some parents had recognized him from the news on the car crash. Even though Furnham hadn't tried to keep it secret, he’d never talked about it with anyone either, still word of his homosexuality had gotten around. Some still hated and were not kind. But these were just words written on a piece of paper and he thought nothing more about it on the way home.
He was about five minutes from his apartment when steam started billowing out from the edges of the car's hood and the engine died as soon as he pulled over to the side of the road. When the steam had subsided and the latch had cooled enough for Harry to release it and raise the hood, the first thing he noticed were the sliced radiator hoses. Harry wasn't a mechanic but he could tell the hoses had been cut and not worn out. They’d been slit just enough to lose cooling fluid but not so fast as to cause the engine to overheat right away. Harry refused to even touch a cell phone let alone use one, so he would have to walk to the diner down the road to use their pay phone to call for a tow.
Thankfully he’d been able to bring Jack with him today and Harry wasn't as worried as he would have been walking alone. Jack had sat up alert when Harry had pulled the car over, and when he opened the back door the dog jumped out of the car ready to take care of any threat. He calmed the canine assuring him everything was okay; they were just going for a walk and he picked up the Jack’s leash now dragging on the ground.
Man and dog had walked far enough that when Harry turned to look back the car was just a small blue shape off in the distance. Harry couldn't see the diner yet in front of him, and he was having doubts he could make it much further because his bad hip and leg were about to give out. He thought about trying to flag down a passing car, but traffic was oddly light for the time of day. When Harry heard a vehicle approaching from behind he turned to try and get the driver’s attention. The truck flew on by without the driver having given any indication of having seen him.
Harry watched the old green Ford turn left at the light and disappear from sight. Resigned to continue walking, he was beginning to limp badly while leaning heavily on his cane as the pain was becoming excruciating. Harry was concentrating so hard on putting one foot in front of the other, that only Jack tugging at the leash alerted him to a vehicle slowing down and coming to a stop alongside them.
The driver of the old pickup rolled down the window and asked Harry if they needed a ride. He looked at the driver’s face and started to thank him before the words caught in his throat. The man’s face was covered by a full length beard and his longish hair was and tied back, but he would have recognized those blue eyes anywhere.
~~*~~
Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five
Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Epilogue